


To Be Judged

by elizaye



Series: Fifty Follower Fics [4]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Crossover, Case Fic, Crossover, M/M, Original Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of alphas passes through Beacon Hills, leaving four dead in their wake. As Derek and his pack try to figure out what this could mean for them, the body count draws Dean and Castiel's attention, and they roll into town, ready to investigate the murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my 300th follower, [pondlifeforme](http://pondlifeforme.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Prompt: _Would you be interested in doing a fic with Dean/Cas and Stiles/Derek? I just love them both so much and I think it would be interesting/funny if Dean was hunting Derek (maybe because of a misunderstanding? like deaths reported in beacon hills and the Winchesters think Derek’s behind it) and Stiles/Cas have the break them apart basically haha._
> 
> This fic diverges from SPN canon at 8x17, with Cas staying behind after breaking Naomi's hold on him rather than running off with the tablet. It is kinda canon-compliant with TW up 'til the end of S2, because I haven't watched S3 yet. I've introduced some werewolf mythology to blend the 'verses, but it is inevitably going to fit better with SPN than TW, because I have more experience with SPN canon.
> 
> There's a potential for the rating to go up, but I'm not sure just yet. Just a heads-up.

Derek wakes to the sound of footsteps coming his way. It takes him a moment to parse them, his focus heightening as he shakes off the grogginess, and he counts two people coming his way. At least one of them is heavily injured, because the rhythm of their footsteps seems as though one is supporting the other—or they’re supporting each other. He steps over to the open window and closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling.

Pack.

So he goes downstairs and throws open the door. Sure enough, Erica and Boyd are hobbling toward the porch, leaning heavily on each other.

“What happened?” Derek asks. He hasn’t seen them since they told him that they were leaving, and that was last week. He assumed they’d be long gone by now.

“Wolfsbane,” Erica answers, wincing as Derek reaches them.

Erica seems to be in better shape than her companion, so Derek lets her make her way up the steps on her own. He slots his shoulder underneath Boyd’s armpit and practically hauls the boy up onto the porch, guiding him into the house.

Derek slowly helps Boyd up the steps and takes them into his guest room, settling them both on the mattress. Boyd falls back almost immediately, head on the pillow, and Derek goes to pull his shoes off for him, because his relatively cool demeanor toward his pack was what drove them away, and if he wants to keep them, things have gotta change.

Erica watches wearily, holding a hand to a wound in her side that’s still steadily seeping blood. Derek goes to the bathroom and wets two hand towels—he bought a whole pack of them a few days ago because Stiles kept complaining that he had nothing clean to wipe his hands on after washing them.

He returns to the bedroom and tosses one towel to Erica before turning to Boyd. Extending his claws, Derek slices Boyd’s shirt open with a few precise tears and pats the wet towel to his wounds, trying to absorb some of the wolfsbane. Boyd’s eyes open a slit, but he doesn’t have to say a word because Derek can scent his gratitude.

“Who did this?” Derek asks as he works.

“It was a group of alphas,” Erica replies, holding the wet towel to her side. _Alpha pack_ , Derek thinks as she continues, “We were being held by the Argents, but they let us go, and then… then the alphas came. They said they didn’t want to kill us, but they tortured us.” She pauses there, as though uncertain whether or not to continue.

“What else?” Derek asks gently.

“They forced us to kidnap four people. Last night, they made us kill them. They only just set us free.”

Shit. “Did they force you to feed?”

Erica shudders, and Boyd squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away a little. The motion exposes a nasty-looking cut on his neck, and Derek holds his head still with a gentle hand, bringing the wet towel up to clean this wound as well.

“No,” Erica answers, thankfully. “Why did they do that? Eat uh—eat the uh—”

“Eat human hearts, you mean,” Derek finishes for her. He sighs—it’s not something he ever wanted to tell them, because knowing that it’s a possibility rouses curiosity. “Most werewolves sustain themselves on human hearts.”

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna be sick,” Erica replies, strained, and Derek’s all the more relieved for it.

“Good,” he says. “Once you’ve fed, it’ll be hard to fight the craving for more.”

It’s silent for a moment, and Derek senses eyes on him. Boyd’s still facing away, so Derek lifts his gaze and sees Erica looking at him warily. He nods minutely, permitting her to ask her questions, and of course, she asks, “Have you ever…?”

“No, I haven’t,” Derek says. “We’ve evolved over the generations. Our forefathers went against their instincts and raised their children against those instincts as well, forcing them to eat normal human food, keeping transformations strictly controlled. At this point, normal food is enough for us.”

Erica relaxes visibly, shoulders slumping a little.

“The alphas,” Boyd starts, voice hoarse, and he coughs a little.

“Hold on, let me get you some water,” Derek says.

He passes the wet towel to Erica, indicating that she should deal with the wounds he hasn’t gotten to yet, before leaving the room. It takes almost no time for him to return with two bottles of water, and he nudges Erica to the side so that he can support Boyd into a sitting position, helping him drink.

“The alphas had a message,” Erica says quietly. “That’s what Boyd was going to say.”

“A message for me,” Derek guesses, tense.

Erica nods. “They uh, they just said for us to tell you to stay put.”

Derek frowns at this—why do the alphas think he would be going anywhere, anyway? Peter had said something about a territorial thing, but the alpha pack hadn’t shown their faces, and Derek hadn’t exactly gone looking for them, either.

Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have sent Peter away—the guy would probably know a little something about the alphas’ motivations.

But no. Derek had been able to justify keeping his uncle around while he was still helpful, useful against a bigger threat, a common enemy. When the threat was eliminated, there was no reason for Peter to stay, and Derek banished him—technically, he’d already paid for Laura’s murder when Derek slit his throat, but Derek just couldn’t imagine living with his sister’s murderer day in and day out, whether or not justice had been served.

Now, though, he has no idea why the alpha pack expects him to be on the move. He needs to rebuild his pack, and leaving Beacon Hills is not the way to go about doing that.

“Derek?” Erica prods, hand stilling over one of the gashes on Boyd’s lower abdomen.

“That’s about as good as it’s gonna get,” Derek says. “They haven’t laced your wounds with enough wolfsbane to kill you—you never would’ve made it back here if they had. You’ll just have to heal on your own time.”

“Okay,” Erica says tiredly, struggling to her feet.

“No, stay,” Derek says, lowering Boyd to the bed again. “The two of you should stay the night and skip school tomorrow. It’s a Friday anyway, and you’ll need time to heal. I don’t expect you to be fully recovered ‘til Monday or Tuesday at the earliest.”

Erica fixes Derek with a look of surprise and disbelief, but all she says is, “Thank you.”

“You’re pack,” Derek answers, stepping toward her and running a hand over her hair. It’s dirty and matted from a week spent in the woods, but they’ll have time to shower tomorrow, after they’ve rested some. “Sleep,” he says.

Erica manages a tentative smile. “Thank you,” she repeats.

Derek just nods once, unaccustomed to these sorts of exchanges, and walks out of the room. When he pauses just outside the doorway and turns to look back, Erica is still watching him, eyes inquisitive. But when their eyes meet, she quickly lowers her gaze and goes to lie down next to Boyd, hissing in pain.

Derek closes their door and crosses the hall to his own room.

* * *

“Guys,” Stiles says as soon as he reaches the lunch table. “Guys, I’ve got big news.”

Jackson and Lydia are still kissing, Allison is still overly focused on her sandwich, Scott is still reading his history book upside-down, and Danny is still fiddling with his phone.

“Guys!” Stiles complains, slamming his tray down next to Scott’s. Scott yelps, Jackson and Lydia spring apart, and a ton of heads turn their way, but _hey_ , they’re paying attention! So Stiles slips onto the bench next to Scott and says, “You guys won’t even _believe_ what I heard on the police radio last night. We were on the way home from Jack in the Box, and I—”

“I don’t _care_ what you heard on the police radio,” Jackson drawls, rolling his eyes and pulling Lydia a little closer. Apparently it’s “true love,” and Stiles doesn’t really have a snowball’s chance in hell, which might just be the suckiest thing to ever suck. But back on topic—

“They found bodies,” Stiles says before anyone can cut him off. And that _definitely_ gets and keeps their attention, because all five pairs of eyes turn to him. “Yeah. _Told_ you it was interesting. Those four people who went missing last week? Yeah. Dead.”

“Are you serious?” Lydia says.

Scott groans. “God, we only _just_ dealt with our lizard problem, and now—”

Stiles elbows him before he can continue, but Danny is already leaning forward, interested. “Lizard? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Scott’s an idiot. Who knows what he’s talking about?” Jackson says with his customary douchebag air, but Stiles guesses it’s at least a _little_ useful, because Danny chuckles and lets it go.

“Anyway, it gets better,” Stiles says, leaning forward in preparation to lower his voice. The others lean over the table too, and Stiles has the sudden urge to laugh because he’s always wanted to make a dramatic declaration like this. He manages to hold it back, because it would totally ruin the mood right now, and says, “Their hearts were missing.”

A beat of silence.

Then Allison says, “Missing.”

“Missing. Vanished. Gone,” Stiles says, leaning back in his seat with a flourish.

“You have a screwed up definition of ‘better,’” Danny comments.

Stiles just grins before turning his attention to the others. They all look a little disturbed, and Stiles would love to theorize, but Danny’s still here, and he’s not in the know yet.

“What do you think could have happened to them?” Allison asks, giving Stiles a warning look, which is _totally_ patronizing and rude because Stiles is not an idiot. _Scott_ is kind of an idiot, and if anyone was gonna let anything slip, it’d be Scott, not Stiles.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “My dad wouldn’t say anything. Obviously.”

“Maybe it’s Hannibal’s picky little brother,” Jackson jokes, and Lydia punches him.

“Not funny,” she chastises, rolling her eyes.

The conversation devolves from there, taking a turn toward a new TV show that Danny’s been forcing Jackson to watch, and Stiles stops paying attention because it’s not important. He sends a text to the other four at the table, the ones in the know: _Derek’s house after school? Still nothing on Boyd and Erica_.

Because yeah, those two have been missing for a week now, and no one’s heard anything from them. They know it couldn’t have been the kanima because Jackson’s a happy, healthy werewolf now—happy and healthy because he’s got Lydia, and who _wouldn’t_ be happy and healthy in his position? Lucky bastard.

Stiles directs his thoughts away from them, because he’s spent enough time grousing mentally and verbally about how obviously unfair the difference is between Jackson’s luck and his own, and spending even _more_ time on it isn’t gonna get him anywhere. Except depressed and angry. Well, more just depressed. And depression leads to idleness and lack of motivation, which is totally the opposite of everything Stiles believes in.

Derek, Stiles forces himself to think. Derek is a hardheaded asshole, but he wouldn’t kidnap Erica and Boyd and pressgang them into staying as part of his pack, would he? And besides, they’ve all been to his house at different times, and Scott, Isaac, and Jackson never smelled anything funny.

Wait, Isaac. “Hey, where’s Isaac?” Stiles asks. The guy is staying with Scott, so if anyone knows what’s going on with him, then Scott would. But of course, Scott’s hiding behind his book and watching Allison, because what _else_ would he be doing, and Stiles kicks him under the table. “ _Scott_.”

“What?” Scott says, sparing a moment to glance at Stiles.

“Where’s Isaac?”

“He’s taking a sick day,” Scott answers distractedly.

“ _Thank_ you,” Stiles says, and then he frowns, because werewolves don’t get sick, do they?

Oh, well. More to ask Derek when they see him in the afternoon. And if all else fails, research.

* * *

Derek has to admit he’s surprised by how natural it feels to be going out and buying groceries, putting together a list of things he can provide for his pack members to eat. It’s more food than usual, because he typically only has himself to look after, but now he has two more mouths to feed, and the alpha in him is undeniably pleased with having the responsibility.

But he stops short when he walks out of the shop, because an unexpected—unwanted—visitor is parked next to the Camaro, clearly waiting for him.

Derek pushes his cart over to his car and pops the trunk, starting to put the groceries inside. “I had nothing to do with the bodies that they found last night,” he says, and it’s not even a lie.

“Is that so?” Chris Argent asks, stepping closer to him. “Because last I checked, werewolves had a tendency to rip people’s hearts out.”

“Not the Hales. You know us,” Derek says.

“But what about the ones you turn, hmm?”

“You haven’t seen Scott tearing any hearts out, have you?” Derek says, finally looking over at Chris.

The man holds his gaze, steady as always. “So you’re willing to vouch for your pack, say that none of them had anything to do with the bodies that were found in the woods last night.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Chris says simply. “That had better be the truth.”

“It is,” Derek responds, putting the last two bags into his trunk and pushing it closed.

“Do you have any idea what might have happened—whether or not another pack might be scoping out the area?” Chris asks.

And Derek answers, honestly, “Nope, not a clue.”

* * *

Castiel supposes this all could have been avoided if he had just flown to Carson City and checked the authenticity of the case ahead of time, but he’s been attempting to stay “under the radar,” as they say, and flying is out of the question, if he wants to remain undetected by Naomi and the angels under her command who are no doubt looking for him.

Sam had given them the details three days ago, and they had driven out here, spent some time investigating, and agreed that there was nothing. Just a couple freak accidents. Coincidences. Dean still insists that Sam rest as much as he can, especially now that Castiel is with them and can provide backup on hunts.

“We should go to Tahoe,” Dean says suddenly, turning the music down a little.

“Why?” Castiel asks. “Kevin Tran still has yet to be moved to the bunker, which I feel would be a far more secure location for him. And once there, he’d be able to translate the angel tablet.”

“Hey, we’ve gotta stay on point, here. Gates of Hell first, and then we’ll get to your angel buddies.”

“Regardless of sequence, Kevin’s relocation takes precedence over a trip to a lake—and over any sort of a case. I still don’t understand why you thought this would be a better use of our time.”

“Look, Kevin’s comfortable where he is. And where he is, Garth can check up on him now and then. Once he’s in the bunker, all he’s gonna have are you and me because Sam’s not a hundred percent. And I wouldn’t trust you to take care of a human, like ever.”

Castiel frowns at this. “I know what a human’s basic requirements are for living. I’d only need to provide sustenance and remind him to get a proper amount of sleep.”

“Yeah well, that’s not all there is to being human.”

This makes Castiel bristle because he’s been around for thousands of years, and perhaps he has never had the full human experience, but he’s certainly come close. And he’s not _stupid_ , as Dean seems to think, sometimes.

But before he can vocalize any of this, Dean’s phone rings, and he digs it out of his pocket and picks up. Castiel refrains from reminding him that it is unwise to drive while holding a cell phone. The distraction would slow down his reaction time, were an emergency situation to arise. But Dean is a man who runs into danger at every turn, and Castiel doubts he worries about car crashes.

Castiel would never allow Dean to be killed by something so mundane as a car crash, anyway. Not while he was there to stop it.

“Wait, wait, wait, lemme put you on speaker phone,” Dean says, pulling his phone away from his ear and pressing a button. “Okay, repeat what you just told me so Cas can hear,” he says as he holds the phone out to Castiel.

“Oh. Hey, Cas,” Sam says.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Well, I was just telling Dean that I found something that’s definitely our sort of thing. Uh, four people with missing hearts, all in the same place at the same time,” Sam says, and it sounds like he’s reading something—a news article, most likely.

“That does indeed sound like a hunt,” Castiel confirms.

“Where is it?” Dean asks.

“Beacon Hills, California,” Sam replies.

“California is adjacent to Nevada—I don’t believe it would be much of a detour for us,” Castiel comments, looking over at Dean. But the hunter’s brow is furrowed, like he’s thinking hard.

“Wait, Beacon Hills,” he says. “Isn’t that where uh, what’s-his-name, uh—”

“Dean, don’t strain yourself,” Sam says, and Castiel is proud that he can pick up his amusement even without any visual cues.

“Argent!” Dean says suddenly, triumphant. “Isn’t that where Chris Argent came from?”

After a pause, Sam says, “Y’know, I think you’re right. You guys were pretty close, weren’t you?”

“Nah, just ran on a couple hunts together. It was a long time ago,” Dean answers, but he’s smiling a little. Whoever this Chris Argent is, Dean’s memories of him are fond.

The realization brings an unpleasant, sour taste to Castiel’s mouth, yet he knows that the chemical composition of his vessel’s saliva has not changed in the past few seconds. Strange, that he can taste something that is not there.

“Well anyway, Cas is right—Beacon Hills is probably only like a three-hour-drive from Carson City, and I figured you guys could go over and check things out. You can even stop for an hour or two at Lake Tahoe, if you want,” Sam says.

Dean grins. “Ah, Sammy. You know me too well.”

* * *

When Derek arrives at his house, he sees a number of cars parked outside—seems everyone in the pack is here. Before he’s even opened his trunk, his front door swings open, and Scott and Isaac emerge, followed closely by Stiles, Jackson, Lydia, and Allison.

“Wow, you were out _grocery shopping?_ ” Stiles says incredulously.

“Yes,” Derek says. “But I was only buying to cook a meal for three, so you guys should probably order a pizza, if you were planning to eat here.” He definitely doesn’t have enough food to cook for a horde of hungry teenagers.

“We’re not here for your food. We just wanna know what’s going on,” Scott says.

“Nothing is going on,” Derek responds. “Now help me get these into the house, and I’ll pay for pizza.”

No one in their right mind turns down free pizza, so Derek’s offer is extremely effective, and less than five minutes later, all the groceries are on the kitchen counter.

As Derek sorts through them—he shooed them out of the way because he needs to know where everything is, if he’s to use it all later—Stiles and Jackson argue over pizza toppings. The others don’t seem to care much about whether or not a pizza should have pineapples on it, and Derek checks out for a while, focusing on getting everything he just bought stowed away.

When he’s finished, he notes that the pizza ordering seems to have been settled, and everyone is in the living room, waiting for him. Erica and Boyd are curled up together on one of the couches, sharing each other’s strength, and Derek feels comforted by the depth of their bond. Jackson, Lydia, and Allison have taken the other couch. Scott and Isaac are leaning against a wall, and Stiles is sitting cross-legged on the ground, though he pops up to his feet when Derek walks into the room.

“Okay, can you tell us what’s really going on, now?” Scott asks. “Erica and Boyd already told us about the alpha pack.”

Of course they did, Derek thinks but doesn’t say—he doesn’t need to make them feel guilty. Besides, he never asked them to keep it a secret.

“What do they want, and what are they doing in Beacon Hills?” Allison asks.

Derek casts a skeptical eye on her. He’s been allowing her into his house because of her strong bonds with Lydia and Scott—broken up or not, their feelings for each other are obvious—but she is still a direct line for Chris, and he finds himself concerned. How much did Boyd and Erica say? He hopes they were smart enough to keep their own involvement out of the story, especially if they noticed the youngest Argent’s presence.

“I don’t know for sure,” Derek finally says, “but I have a theory.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Stiles says.

“Well, it’s rooted in one of the oldest werewolf traditions in history,” Derek begins. “Basically, though each werewolf pack has an alpha, there is always one True Alpha, an immortal wolf that dominates over all others. The True Alpha cannot be killed or challenged by another werewolf, and anyone who tries will inevitably die. But a wolf cannot be born a True Alpha; that privilege has to be earned.”

“How come I’ve never heard of this before?” Allison asks.

“I doubt any hunters have heard of this,” Derek responds.

“Okay, so if True Alphas can’t be killed or challenged, how can another werewolf take over as True Alpha?” Jackson asks, arms folded across his chest.

“Well, every five hundred years, a Judge is born. A Judge is human, can be male or female, and is essential to werewolves everywhere because the wolf that he or she chooses to mate is the one that becomes the True Alpha for the next five hundred years or so, until the next Judge manifests,” Derek says. He remembers this well, remembers sitting on his dad’s knee as he told him about Judges and counted years with him.

“But wouldn’t there be two True Alphas, then? Do they have a fight to the death, or what?” Stiles asks.

“The previous True Alpha can either step down peacefully or challenge the new one. As far as I know, all old True Alphas have lost to the new ones. But that hasn’t been a problem for thousands of years, because the last True Alpha always found the Judge and courted him or her to keep his position. If the Judge couldn’t be courted, he just killed ‘em,” Derek says. His dad had sounded bitter about it, but Derek hadn’t really cared—still doesn’t, honestly.

“Well that’s… shitty,” Jackson says.

Lydia laughs. “Just be happy that you’re a werewolf at all, okay? Don’t be trying some shit with a Judge to turn yourself into a True Alpha. I won’t take you back.”

“Manifest,” Stiles says suddenly, eyes on Derek. “You said ‘manifest.’ What do you mean by that?”

“Oh. Judges don’t become detectable by us until they’re somewhere between seventeen and twenty years old,” Derek answers, “which brings me to why the alphas might be traveling together. The last True Alpha died two years ago—no one knows how, but we all felt him go. So those guys were probably traveling together in search of the Judge, since the time’s about right—the Judge should be about seventeen years old, now.”

“But the Judge might not show up ‘til three years from now, is what you’re saying,” Lydia says.

“Yes,” Derek confirms. Then he adds, “It explains why they wanted me to stay put, too—if Erica and Boyd mentioned their message to me.”

“Yeah, they did,” Scott says.

So Derek goes on to explain, “Well, the likelihood of a Judge choosing a non-alpha for a mate is virtually zero, so if the traveling alphas can lock down all other alphas, it’ll be easier for them to eliminate competition when they finally find the Judge.”

“Huh,” Isaac grunts. “But how do they know the Judge isn’t in one of the places that they pass through?”

“I guess they don’t,” Derek says. “I’m pretty sure they’re just assuming that the Judge will appear if they prowl around town for a while.”

As the group mulls that over, Stiles asks, “Do _you_ want to be True Alpha?”

“I’m uninterested,” Derek answers. “Anyway, the alpha pack should leave this area when they’re satisfied that the Judge isn’t here—I’m pretty sure they’re gone already, seeing as they’ve let Erica and Boyd come back to us.”

“All that power, though. It doesn’t tempt you at all?” Jackson asks.

“Not really,” Derek replies. All he wants is for his pack to be whole. Anything else isn’t as important.

The doorbell rings then, and Stiles bounds for the door—“Pizza!”

* * *

Dean and Cas get to Beacon Hills around ten o’clock at night and pull into the parking lot of a motel. After they’ve rented a room and Cas is all set up on the laptop, Dean takes out his cell phone and decides to give Chris a call, just for old times’ sake.

“Who is this?” Chris asks when he picks up.

“I can’t believe this is still your number,” Dean says, eyes widening a little. “Hey, Chris.”

Chris just repeats, “Who is this?”

“Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester,” Dean answers with a chuckle.

“Wow,” Chris says after a beat. “It’s been a long time, Dean. God, it has to have been ten or eleven years, by now. How’ve you been?”

Dean huffs. “I’ve been all right, considering. Listen, you’ll never guess where I am.”

“Where are you?”

“Your hometown.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. I’m in Beacon Hills, California.”

Another pause, and then Chris asks, “Where are you staying?”

“Some motel,” Dean answers, because he can’t be bothered to check. One shitty motel’s just about the same as the next, anyway.

“You should stay at my place. I’ve got rooms to spare.”

“Oh, you still own a house out here?”

“I _live_ here,” Chris says, amused.

“ _Oh_. Oh, dude, that’s awesome,” Dean says, even as he starts to wonder. There’s no way Chris wouldn’t know about werewolf kills in his own town, so maybe he’s already looking into them…?

“So do you have a pen or something?”

“Nah, just text me your address. I’ll be over in a few,” Dean replies, and Cas looks up at him over the top of the laptop, curious.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

“See you soon,” Dean echoes. He hangs up and says to Cas, “Okay, pack that up. We’re gonna go stay at Chris’s place.”

Cas shuts down the laptop without comment, and Dean is pleased that they haven’t really had any time to spread things out in the room—Cas doesn’t really have much in the way of belongings anyway, and Dean only dropped his duffel on the ground when he came in the room, didn’t even open it.

Less than fifteen minutes later, they’ve canceled the motel room and are arriving at Chris’s house.

“Dude, nice digs,” Dean says when Chris opens the door for them.

“Dean,” Chris says with a warm smile, leaning forward to get a quick hug. He steps back to let them inside, nodding to acknowledge Cas as he passes. “Who’s your friend?”

“Cas. He’s working hunts with me,” Dean replies.

“Oh. Glad you’ve got someone to watch your back,” Chris says, shaking hands with Cas. “I’m Chris.”

“Yes, I know,” Castiel replies.

“So, how are you?” Dean asks. “Are Victoria and Allison around?”

A pained look crosses Chris’s face, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek, because that means either one or both of them are dead.

“Victoria passed away,” Chris says quietly. “Allison’s fine, though. She’s upstairs. Would you like to see her, see if she remembers you at all?”

“Nah, it’s fine. If we’re staying here for a few days, I figure we’ll see her eventually,” Dean says.

Chris nods and leads them farther into the house. “So, what are you doing in town? I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“Well, you’ve heard about the bodies they found, haven’t you?” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Chris says, and he sounds tired. “They definitely sound like the work of werewolves.”

“Did you investigate at all?” Dean asks.

“Well, the local police all kinda know me, so… it wasn’t really convenient for me to investigate,” Chris says. “I’m not exactly a full-time hunter anymore.”

“Ah, right. To afford a place like this, I figure you’ve probably got yourself a respectable job and all,” Dean says, grinning.

“Eh, close enough,” Chris responds, starting up a flight of stairs. “Anyway, it’s kinda late, so unless you’re hungry, I’ve got two spare bedrooms upstairs that you can set up in.”

“I won’t need a room,” Cas says, because of course he doesn’t know when to keep his damn mouth shut.

“We’re just more used to sharing,” Dean says in response to Chris’s raised eyebrows.

“That’s fine,” Chris says. “It took me a while to get used to living in such a big space, too.” They reach the top of the stairs, and Chris turns to his right, going down a hallway and pushing open the door at the end. “This should hopefully work,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” Dean says, walking inside and dropping his duffel bag on the ground.

“The bathroom is just next door, and the linen closet is across the hall from it,” Chris adds.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. And you’d better not be too busy hunting to have dinner with Allison and me tomorrow night,” Chris says. “Let me tell you: I’ve picked up some skills over the years.”

“Hey, you know me. I’d never turn down food.”

“Okay, then.” Turning to Cas, Chris says, “I hope you like meat.” Cas just smiles tightly, and Chris gives Dean an odd look before backing out of the room. “Good night, then.”

“Night,” Dean says.

* * *

Castiel is not fond of Chris Argent.

The man seems sincere enough in his interactions with Dean, but Castiel can’t help but feel that he is trying to hide something from them. The man has a noble soul at the core, yet Castiel cannot like him, and he is no longer able to tell whether this is because of Chris’s secrecy, or because Castiel envies the man’s history with Dean.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sort out his feelings on the matter anytime soon, but he has all night to decide—Dean has just fallen asleep, and he will be in this state for a minimum of four hours, though now he sleeps closer to six hours a night, accustomed to a more relaxed life at the bunker.

 _Hola, Cas_.

Castiel frowns at the voice, somehow familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Who would be praying directly to him?

_I uh, don’t even know if you can hear me, you being still in Purgatory and me being a monster soul and all, but…_

There’s a pause for a chuckle here, all too familiar, and even if Castiel hadn’t had the context of the previous words, he would have identified the speaker as Benny.

 _Well, it helped Dean, and I guess… I guess I’m desperate, here_.

Castiel looks over at Dean, lying in bed, and wonders why he’s never mentioned Benny since Castiel returned. Castiel had even begun to assume that Dean might have killed Benny, on the grounds of his species, but it is clear now that he hasn’t. This makes sense, too—Dean valued his friendship very highly.

_Never really believed in God, y’know, not after finding out that my maker wasn’t as godly as he claimed to be. Never believed in angels, either, not ‘til I met—well. He ain’t my friend no more, that much he made pretty damn clear._

The pain in his voice is palpable, and Castiel simply cannot ignore it.

_I just—I just need some help, here._

Castiel lands behind the vampire and finds him on his knees in the dirt, next to an old, beaten-up truck.

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold out without—think I’m losin’ my mind, a little.”

“Hello, Benny,” Castiel says quietly.

Benny jerks forward and shoves a hand against the ground, propelling with his legs so that he’s lunging to his feet. He spins around, knife already in hand, lips pulled back in a snarl, and Castiel feels concerned by his near-feral state. And then the knife lowers, and Benny’s eyes widen. “Hot-wings. Didn’t know you got out,” he says.

“I was pulled out by some angels,” Castiel starts, but realizes that it’s irrelevant—he doesn’t want to talk about the mind control, in any case.

The important thing is that Castiel stopped— _didn’t hurt Dean_ —and Dean seems to have forgiven him.

“It is unimportant,” Castiel says, waving a hand dismissively. “You prayed to me. What do you want?”

Benny turns away, but in the moment before he does, Castiel catches the unbearably sad, broken look on his face, nothing like the fierce warrior he’d fought alongside in Purgatory. “I just don’t have anyone left,” Benny says, voice raw.

Castiel frowns—this makes no sense. “What happened between you and Dean?”

“I’d rather not get into it.”

“What do you want from me, then?”

Benny is quiet for a long moment, but Castiel is patient and allows him the time to sort out his thoughts; it is difficult to imagine why a vampire would be praying to an angel.

Finally, Benny confesses, “I almost drank from a man tonight, stalked him through a dark alleyway and everything. I…” he turns toward Castiel, jaw clenched, and then continues, “I barely stopped myself from attacking him, only just managed to let him through.”

Castiel frowns. “So you… have been going against your own nature,” he infers.

“Yes.”

“But why? Just as humans need to eat, vampires need to eat.”

Benny’s eyes widen at this. “So you don’t think vampires are evil for drinking humans.”

“No. It is in their nature. It is what they need to do to survive,” Castiel responds. “Animal blood is a viable substitute, but it is not the same, and it is not what vampires were meant to drink.”

“But—Dean is a hunter. How do you justify him hunting monsters for doing what is just ‘in their nature,’ then?” Benny asks.

“You already said it: he is a hunter. He perceives vampires as monsters because they prey on his species—naturally, he would want to protect members of his own species from being fed upon,” Castiel says. “That does not, however, give him some sort of moral superiority over you.”

Benny blinks. “But we were human once.”

“You aren’t anymore.”

“So it’s really that simple to you,” Benny says. “If I went and just killed a dozen people for kicks, you wouldn’t smite me on the spot.”

“I would take you to Dean,” Castiel says. “If you killed people for fun, I would not approve. But drinking from people for sustenance— _that_ is not wrong, in my eyes.”

“I guess it _would_ be different for you, you being an angel and all,” Benny mutters.

Castiel nods. “I have grown very fond of humanity in my time on Earth, but I do not necessarily always see the world from their perspective.”

_Cas?_

“Dean is calling me,” Castiel says.

_Cas, where the hell are you?_

Benny’s expression immediately darkens at the mention of his—former?—friend, and Castiel looks at him sympathetically. “I need to go.”

“Go ahead,” Benny says, already starting to turn away.

_Get your ass back here, y’hear me?_

Castiel takes two steps over to the vampire and grasps his shoulder, stopping him. “I will return, Benny. Do not give up—you are not truly alone.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel tries for a reassuring smile, and then he takes off.

* * *

Dean wakes up slowly, looking around an unfamiliar room. It seems nicer than the average motel room, the bed underneath him softer and the sheets nicer-smelling, without that starchy feeling to them. It takes a while for him to remember that he’s sleeping in Chris Argent’s guest room.

And then he realizes that a certain trench coat is nowhere to be seen.

“Cas?” Dean mutters, still a little groggy. He sits up and looks around the room, which is illuminated by slivers of moonlight shining in through the slats of the shutters in front of the window.

Cas really isn’t here.

“Cas?” Dean repeats, closing his eyes and making it a prayer. “Cas, where the hell are you?”

He cracks his eyes open, but Cas hasn’t appeared anywhere, and Dean shuts his eyes again.

“Get your ass back here, y’hear me?” he demands.

Dean waits a moment longer, and then there’s the telltale fluttering of wings that precedes Cas’s arrival. When he opens his eyes, Cas is standing in the room, looking strangely guilty.

“What the hell, man?” Dean says, glaring at him.

“I had some... business… to attend to.”

“You are seriously _the_ shittiest liar there ever was,” Dean declares. “Look, was it Naomi? If it was, you’d better tell me, ‘cause I’m gonna rip that bitch apart.”

“It was not Naomi.”

“Fuck, even if it was, you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you?” Dean says, shaking his head. “Because she was controlling you, and so when we thought something was wrong with you, you just reassured us that you were fine even though you weren’t—you _weren’t_ , and we should have noticed.”

Cas’s hands come up to cup Dean’s cheeks, thumbs resting over Dean’s lips, and Dean can’t help but notice how reassuring—how _good_ —that feels.

“Please stop, Dean. We have been over this before,” Cas says.

Dean sighs, and Cas’s hands fall away. “Fine,” Dean says. “If it wasn’t Naomi, tell me where you went. You said that flying anywhere at all was risky, so why are you making midnight flights all of a sudden?”

“It was important.”

“Important enough to _not_ tell me? Cas, you’ve gotta tell me these things.”

Cas sighs, something sad entering his eyes. “I was answering Benny’s prayer,” he says, and Dean feels all the old guilt flooding back in. Cas goes on, “He almost drank tonight, but he stopped and prayed to me instead. I really don’t know how much resolve he has left.”

“Damn it, Benny,” Dean mutters.

“If it is not too much trouble, I would like to know why you deserted him,” Cas says.

God, Cas is always this direct, isn’t he? “It’s a long story,” Dean says.

“We have plenty of time,” Cas answers. “It’s the middle of the night, and you do not seem much inclined to go back to sleep, anyway.”

In an attempt to redirect the topic of conversation, Dean asks, “How did he look?”

“Bad,” Cas responds, no less blunt than before. He’s still looking at Dean, waiting for an explanation, and Dean sighs again, because he knows Cas isn’t gonna let this go.

“I won’t get into the details,” Dean says, because the last thing he needs is to relive it all over again. “In the end, it just boiled down to a choice for me between Benny and Sam.”

Cas gets another sad look in his eyes and says, “It’s not your fault, Dean. Benny doesn’t blame you.”

“You can’t possibly know that. There’s no one else for him to blame but me.”

“But I do know,” Cas says, and it’s a little disconcerting how awfully certain about this he seems to be. “I know because I can sympathize. If it comes to a choice between Sam and me, I know that you will not choose me, but I will never blame you for it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles lobs the ball at the goal with all his might, but Scott catches it easily before tossing it back at him.

“I think you’re getting better,” Scott says, which is a blatant _lie_ , because Stiles still hasn’t made a single ball into the net since they started practicing forty minutes ago.

Groaning, Stiles tosses the ball straight up a few times, catching it with his stick each time. Then he takes a few steps back, pauses, and sprints toward the goal, hoping the close range will make it harder for Scott to block his shot.

He swings his stick to the left, and it looks like he’s made it, but the head of Scott’s stick shoots out _just_ in time, knocking the ball off course and making it soar past the net.

“Damn it!” Stiles curses, but when he looks up, he catches Scott’s eyes going from gold back to brown, and he says, “ _Hey!_ I thought we agreed on no wolfing out!”

“Sorry—instinct,” Scott says, holding up a hand. “If it helps, that totally would’ve gone in if I hadn’t wolfed out.”

“This is so not fair,” Stiles grumbles as he walks back to his starting position and scoops up another ball.

“So are you… doing okay?” Scott asks out of the blue, but Stiles is psyching himself up for another attempt, so it takes him a second to process what his friend just said.

“Did you just ask how _I_ was doing?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles looks around, and no, the sky’s still blue, and the grass is still green, but if there were pigs anywhere in Beacon Hills, they would definitely be flying.

“Stiles?” Scott says.

“Yeah uh, yeah!” Stiles says, remembering himself. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not, y’know, _thrilled_ or anything, but, well, good for her.”

“So when you see her and Jackson…”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, and wow, he actually means it. That’s… surprising. “I know you’re not doing too good, though,” he goes on, because Scott might have brought up Stiles’s feelings in the hopes that he’d get to talk about his own. Subconsciously, of course. Scott doesn’t strategize like that.

“I am fine. I am completely and totally fine,” Scott answers.

But that’s total bullshit, and Stiles isn’t afraid to call him on it. “Dude, you don’t have to lie to me. I can smell you and your sour-bitterness from all the way over here,” he says. And then he frowns, because he actually _does_ smell it.

Tossing his lacrosse stick aside, Stiles walks toward the goal instead, and the smell only gets stronger as he gets closer to Scott, who’s looking at him strangely.

“Holy shit, Scott,” Stiles murmurs, “is this what sadness really smells like?”

Scott makes a confused face and says, “Wow, this is weird. You haven’t taken too many balls to the head lately, have you?”

“Shut up! I don’t think this is normal,” Stiles says, inhaling deeply, and he thinks he can smell sweat, not in the normal way but like, _darker_ , if that makes any sense. And there’s definitely a sour-bitter smell, something that just _smells_ sad. “Scott, do you think Derek bit me in my sleep or something? Because smelling emotions is just not _normal_ —”

“I doubt it,” Scott says, and then he whacks Stiles in the arm with his lacrosse stick.

“Ow! What the hell was _that_ for?” Stiles yelps.

“If it bruises, we’ll know you’re still good and human,” Scott says simply.

“Oh, you _asshole!_ ” Stiles barks, charging at his friend.

Scott immediately makes for the locker room, and Stiles chases after him, but of course he doesn’t catch up, ‘cause the guy’s a freakin’ _werewolf_. _So_ not fair.

* * *

In the morning, Dean and Cas come downstairs in time to have breakfast with Chris—just toast and eggs, with a cup of coffee each. Thankfully, Cas just accepts the food and eats it, instead of saying something stupid to the effect of _I do not require sustenance_.

“So, where are you two thinking about starting today?” Chris asks.

“The coroner’s office,” Dean answers. It’s where they’re used to starting whenever there are bodies, after all.

“Oh,” Chris says. “Well, I’d go with you, but it’s kind of a small town, and the people who work there might know my face, so—”

“That’s fine,” Dean says.

“Why are you bothering with the coroner’s office anyway? We already know the hearts are missing, so it’s gotta be werewolves,” Chris reasons, taking a sip from his mug.

“Yeah well, Cas likes to run his own tests,” Dean says.

When Chris slants his eyes toward Cas, Cas chews and swallows the bite that’s in his mouth before saying, “It’s less fallible if we see the bodies ourselves. A hunter’s eyes are trained to notice things that a coroner would not.”

“Uh huh,” Chris grunts. “Suit yourselves, I guess.”

Dean downs the rest of his coffee and puts the mug down on the kitchen island. Following his example, Cas pushes his plate away from him, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Dean says. “I’m not sure when we’re gonna be back, so don’t wait up.”

Chris chuckles. “Yeah, all right. Give me a call if you run into trouble with the local police. I’ve got a few strings I can pull.”

“All right. Thanks, man.”

Dean and Cas make their way out of the house and head to the Impala.

Cas is frowning faintly, and Dean doesn’t know what that’s about, but he doesn’t like it. So as soon as they’re both in the car, he turns to Cas and says, “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Cas answers immediately, expression clearing.

“Uh, no. No, it’s not. You were making that pinched face that you get whenever something’s weighing on you. What’s up?” Dean prods, sticking his key into the ignition but not turning it yet.

Sighing, Cas says, “I believe Chris is being insincere.”

Of the things Dean thought Cas might be worried about, _that_ wasn’t one of the options. “What?”

“I think he is keeping something from us,” Cas explains. “I chose not to directly invade his mind, as I knew you would disapprove, but I… I think he has lied to us.” Before Dean can protest, Cas goes on, “If you set aside the fact that he is your friend and consider the circumstances, he knew about the missing hearts, but he chose not to do anything. I am certain that even if you were retired, you would investigate such an obvious signifier of werewolves.”

Dean remembers having considered that, but Chris said that the locals would all recognize him, so it makes sense that he wouldn’t have wanted to get involved. Then again, if Dean were in Chris’s position, he knows for sure that he wouldn’t stand idle when people in his town could be in danger.

“Fine, we’ll just be careful around him,” Dean says. “But for the record, I trust him.”

“It’s been some time since you were last in contact with him,” Cas says. “How can you know that he hasn’t changed, in all that time?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve made your point. Look, just—call it a gut feeling, okay?” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition and waiting for the engine to start before shifting gears and backing out of the driveway.

“Yes, because the lower gastrointestinal tract of a human is so much more reliable than the mind of an angel,” Cas says dryly, and Dean can’t help but laugh.

“You’d better believe it,” he shoots back.

* * *

When “Chris Argent” comes up on Derek’s caller ID, he immediately rejects the call. Erica and Boyd may be injured, but they’re lying quietly in the guest room, and it’s entirely possible that they could hear Chris and Derek’s conversation over the phone. Normally it wouldn’t be a concern, but Derek doesn’t have confirmation that the group of alphas has left town yet, and if Chris is actually calling Derek, something serious could be happening.

His phone beeps with a text message alert. _Meet me. Nation’s burgers. URGENT._

Fuck, Derek mouths, careful not to make a sound. Then he walks out of his room and toward the stairs, calling toward the guest room, “Going out to grab a burger from Nation’s—want anything?”

“Derek, it’s like nine in the morning,” Erica says.

“Suit yourself,” Derek responds absently, hurrying down the stairs and out of the house. _Be there in ten_ , he texts back when he’s in the car.

Fuck, what would be considered urgent? Is someone hurt? Is it a member of his pack? Worse—has someone _died?_ Why the hell would Chris want a meeting with Derek? What is a situation that Chris Argent would deem “urgent,” anyway?

Eight minutes later, Derek pulls into the parking lot of Nation’s Giant Hamburgers and finds Chris there, leaning against his SUV.

“Got some news for you,” Chris says as Derek approaches.

“Okay,” Derek says, looking over the hunter. He’s dressed casually, breathing normally, heart rate steady—there’s nothing to indicate an emergency, so why did he call this urgent?

“There are two hunters in town.”

“What?” Derek says, surprised.

“They heard about the deaths here, the missing hearts. Of course they decided to come,” Chris says, and oh, this could be bad, very bad. “Now, I’ve accepted that you and your pack aren’t a danger to our town, or to humans in general, but this friend of mine… he kills anything supernatural, purely on the basis of it being supernatural. He won’t give you a free pass just because you’re not killing anyone.”

“Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Derek hisses. “So he’s a psychopath.”

“Watch it,” Chris says sharply. “That hunter is my friend.”

Derek just shakes his head, because goddamn it, he isn’t even sure that the alphas have left town, and the last thing he needs right now is another hunter or two in town to complicate matters.

“Just be careful, all right?” Chris says, making an aborted gesture toward Derek—it almost looked like he was gonna put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “If your pack is rounded up and killed, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to save them. Or you. Make sure they keep their heads down.”

“Got it,” Derek says, nodding. And then, because this was Chris doing him a favor, he adds, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Chris responds automatically, but Derek can scent his surprise, can tell that he caught him off guard.

It’s surreal, Derek thinks as they flash quick smiles at each other before parting. He doesn’t think he’s ever had such a friendly relationship with a hunter before, and god, how on earth did that even happen?

Shaking his head, Derek heads into the restaurant, because Erica and Boyd are gonna have questions if he returns without a burger. And because he needs some time to think about how much to tell his pack.

* * *

“There was an entire group of werewolves present for the killing of those four people,” Castiel tells Dean as they leave the morgue—the coroner had insisted on being present while they looked at the bodies, so Castiel had done a cursory inspection before telling Dean that he’d seen enough.

“How many?” Dean asks.

“I am unsure. But the ones that did the killing were not the ones that did the eating,” Castiel says. It seems odd to Castiel—why would werewolves kill if not for themselves?

“That distinction doesn’t matter,” Dean says, waving a hand dismissively.

But perhaps it _should_ matter, Castiel thinks. Killing for sustenance he understands. Killing to sustain others… others who could be hunting for their own food… that seems unnatural. Strange.

“The werewolves—would you be able to identify them if they were posing as townspeople?” Dean asks.

“Most likely, yes,” Castiel answers. “But it’d be best if I could start from the site of the murders and pick up the traces of their presence from there.”

“Okay. So we’ve gotta go to the police station, figure out where the bodies were found,” Dean says.

“Yes, that sounds effective,” Castiel agrees before getting into the car.

Dean gets into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. After sticking the key in the ignition, he glances over at Castiel and says, “Y’know what, when we get there, you just flash your badge and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the talking.”

“Of course, Dean.”

They reach the police department in approximately fifteen minutes, and Castiel follows Dean inside after another vow that he will do minimal talking. It’s demeaning, Dean’s lack of confidence in Castiel’s ability to blend in with humans.

“Hello,” Dean says to a young officer sitting at a desk near the entrance. “We’re from the FBI, here to see the sheriff.”

“I’m your man,” someone says from the right, and Castiel turns to see a uniformed man walking toward them. “Stilinski,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Gesundheit,” Dean responds, shaking his hand, and the man smiles in good humor. It’s surprising how tall he is, probably only one or two inches shorter than Dean. “I’m Alonzo Mosely, and this is my partner, Eddie Moscone.”

The sheriff raises his eyebrows. “You don’t… really expect me to believe that.”

“We have the badges, if you—”

“Right. So you’ve never seen _Midnight Run_.”

Dean only blinks, caught off guard, so Castiel takes a step closer to the sheriff, lowering his voice to say, “They’re code names. We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

Stilinski looks at him skeptically but says, “All right, let’s pretend I believe you. What do you want?”

“We’re here to help you solve your latest case,” Dean answers. “Can we talk about this in your office?”

“Fine,” Stilinski says, walking farther into the station. Dean and Castiel follow him into a small room, and Castiel shuts the door behind them. “Now, if you give me a believable reason why you’re using code names, maybe I’ll help you,” the sheriff says.

“It’s uh, an IA thing,” Dean says. “We’re really not supposed to talk about it.”

“Internal Affairs? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“We suspect that one or some of our IA investigators are screwing with paperwork, giving up classified information to anyone who’ll pay, so we’ve switched to a system of code names, to see if we can flush them out,” Dean improvises, and even after knowing Dean for so long, Castiel still finds himself surprised by how quickly Dean can spin lies.

“All right, fine. What’s the FBI want with this case? It hasn’t crossed state lines or anything.”

“Oh, my partner and I actually just came from Carson City, investigating another case like this. Dead people with their hearts missing, just like the ones you’ve got in your morgue. We heard that more bodies had turned up here, so we came right over.”

Stilinski eyes Dean skeptically before saying, “All right, Mosely and Moscone. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to see the place where you found the bodies,” Dean says.

“But there’s nothing there,” Stilinski says.

“Still. We’d like to see it, for ourselves. Y’know, just to be thorough.”

The sheriff hesitates for a moment, considering, before saying, “I guess I could give you guys a ride.”

“Oh, we’ve got a car. If you could just point out the spot to us on a map, or lead us there yourself, that’d be great,” Dean says.

“All right,” the sheriff says, passing by them to open the door to his office. “Follow me.”

* * *

It’s not a long drive out into the woods, but Dean almost wishes he’d taken the sheriff up on his offer for a ride, because all these trees with their branches sticking out into the road could be really messing up Baby’s paintjob.

They pull up behind Stilinski’s car and get out as he approaches.

“The bodies were off this way,” Stilinski says, leading them to the left down a path that looks like it wasn’t there until very recently—probably made by the local police walking to and from their cars when they went to check out the crime scene.

Dean follows the sheriff to a patch of bushes, where he stops and points out at a clearing.

“This is it. They were positioned in the shape of a square. Do you think it could have been a cult?”

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility,” Dean says easily. “Cutting out hearts puts this beyond anything our run of the mill murderers would do.”

“Hmm,” Stilinski grunts. Then he says, “Well, like I said, there’s nothing here. So we gonna go back to the station or what?”

“You go ahead. We’ll spend a little more time here, see if we can’t figure something out,” Dean says.

The sheriff eyes him mistrustfully but eventually says, “Have at, then,” before turning and walking away.

Dean watches him leave, waiting until they’ve heard his car start up before turning back to the clearing. Cas has wandered out into the center of it, head tilted slightly upward, and the sunlight hitting his face makes him look strangely angelic. Fitting.

“So, you got anything for me?” Dean asks.

“The killings didn’t happen here,” Cas answers. “And the ones that did the killing are not among these scents.” Squinting, he says, “I will see where the wolves came from and where they were headed.”

Dean hardly has enough time to say, “Go ahead,” before Cas vanishes, and Dean sighs. But he hasn’t even sat down when Cas reappears, a few yards to his left.

“The wolves that ate the hearts have already left the town. Strangely, they left the killers here,” Cas says. “I have a sense of the two wolves that did the killing, and I know where they are.”

“Where?”

“It’s a large house, in a different stretch of the woods.”

“Did you kill them?”

Cas smiles wryly and answers, “You told me not to take all the fun out of your job.”

“Damn straight,” Dean says, grinning. “Let’s go unload a couple silver bullets.”

The drive there, with Cas’s directions, takes less than ten minutes, and true to Cas’s word, it is a pretty damn big house. It looks abandoned, which would make it perfect for two werewolves to hide in—Dean can see why they chose it.

“Are they in there right now?” Dean asks.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Anyone else in there with them?”

“No.”

Dean nods, patting his jacket to make sure his knife is there. Then he gets out of the car and walks right up to the front door, knocking twice. When there’s no answer, he tries the handle and finds the door unlocked. So he pushes it open quickly, scanning the immediate area as he steps inside.

No one in sight.

There’s a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor right in front of him, and then there’s kind of an open area, with a kitchen and living room on either side.

“The wolves are still present,” Cas says lowly from behind Dean.

“Then they’ve probably heard us coming,” Dean responds, starting up the stairs.

Sure enough, before he’s even halfway up, someone barrels out into the hallway and leaps down at him.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean curses, ducking and spinning on the steps, drawing his knife out as he does. He remembers as he does that there are two of them, but as the blonde lands on the first floor and turns to face him, snarling, he doesn’t hear any motion elsewhere. “Cas, go check for the other werewolf.”

Dean’s eyes are on the girl, so he sees a flash of fear in her eyes, something worried, _familiar_ , about that look, and then she’s leaping up, pushing off the banister to get back upstairs without having to come into contact with Dean. Dean swipes at her with his knife, but she’s too quick, and he pounds his way up the steps, stopping at the top behind Cas, who has his angel blade out.

“What do you want with us?” the girl asks, crouched defensively in front of a bedroom door, and shit, she looks like a fucking _teenager_.

“You killed four people,” Dean says. “Did you think you’d get away with it?”

The girl snarls but retracts her fangs. “We didn’t want to.”

“Boohoo. You still killed four people.”

“Dean, someone’s coming,” Cas says.

He’s scarcely finished speaking when a figure barrels through the front door, knocking it off its hinges, and flies right at Dean. Cas drops his blade, throwing a hand up to stop the man mid-leap, and Dean shies out of Cas’s way, chasing the blonde into the room she was seemingly guarding.

A buff black guy—teenager too, probably—charges forward just as Dean reaches the doorway, and Dean, not suspecting it, goes down. He starts to bring the knife up against the boy on top of him, but his arm is caught in an unnaturally strong grasp, and he struggles with the werewolf, watching as his eyes flash gold, fangs showing with a snarl.

The werewolf is suddenly thrown backwards, and Dean sees Cas standing at the top of the steps, both hands extended, one pinning the black kid in place, the other pinning the new arrival down.

“What the hell are you?” the werewolf on the stairs growls at Cas, and whoa, his eyes are red. Dean’s only ever seen red eyes on crossroad demons, which—this is _weird_.

Whatever—doesn’t matter. Dean pulls his gun, because he’s had enough of these yahoos, and points it at the red-eyed werewolf.

“Dean, wait. That one has no blood on his hands. No human blood, at least,” Cas says, and right, yeah. They’ve been trying not to kill “good” monsters, ever since Cas started joining him on hunts. With Benny, and that werewolf girl he and Sam let off maybe half a year back, it’s sorta becoming a trend.

“What _is_ he?” the red-eyed wolf growls, turning his eyes on Dean, now. “You’re a hunter, right? The new hunter that just rolled into town. You _do_ realize that your partner isn’t human, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Then why aren’t you hunting _him?_ ”

“Just shut the hell up,” Dean snaps, turning around to point his gun at the two people who need to go. It’s not as fun when Cas has everyone pinned down, and it’s especially hard to pull the trigger when the blond girl is crouching in front, trying to guard her friend. They’re killers, but god, they’re _kids_.

“I sense someone else coming,” Cas says quietly, and Dean looks toward the door, frowning.

“Another wolf?” Dean asks.

“Get out of here!” the werewolf on the staircase barks, clearly worried, but when Dean looks over at Cas, he seems intrigued and not at all concerned.

He thinks he should kill the two werewolves on the ground right now, get Cas to beam them the hell outta here, and call it a day, but instinct tells him he’d be in the wrong. _They’re kids_ , he can’t seem to stop thinking.

This was definitely not what Dean wanted when he took on this case.

* * *

“Derek wants us to go,” Scott says as they get closer to the house.

But Stiles just looks at the black car suspiciously and looks at the house, looks at the opening where the front door’s been smashed in. God, _please_ let this just be a training exercise.

Scott grabs his arm when he tries to go on, and Stiles turns to him. “If Derek sounded so worried, you should go get backup.”

“But—Erica and Boyd are already there, but nobody’s moving. Should I get Isaac and Jackson?”

Probably not, if they’re at a standstill in there. Maybe more wolves would only make the situation worse, Stiles thinks, looking back at the black Impala parked next to Derek’s Camaro. “Chris Argent,” Stiles suggests. Scott looks hesitant, but Stiles reasons, “If our problem is a hunter, then we need a hunter to vouch for us. If it’s the alpha werewolves, then Isaac and Jackson wouldn’t be much help anyway.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Scott agrees, nodding, and takes off.

Stiles watches him disappear into the woods, back in the direction of the town, before turning toward the house again. Wishing he had a baseball bat with him, Stiles takes a deep breath and marches up onto the porch, then into the house.

The first thing he sees is Derek, sprawled on the stairs awkwardly, unmoving. Some guy in a tan trench coat—like Columbo, only hot—has a hand extended toward Derek, palm facing out, like he’s a witch about to cast a spell or something, and Stiles wastes no time racing up the stairs to stand in front of Derek, ignoring the growl of disapproval he gets.

A flash of motion from the hallway up top catches his attention, and there’s an unfamiliar guy there with a gun, probably in league with Columbo, spinning to point his gun at Derek and Stiles instead. Boyd and Erica are on the ground, also not moving, and Stiles turns his attention to Columbo because he seems to be the one calling the shots here.

“You need to get out of this house, kid,” hot-guy-with-a-gun says menacingly, voice gravelly and low.

“Only if you come with me,” Stiles says.

“ _Stiles_ —” Derek hisses, and when Stiles looks over, he’s clearly straining to move, trying to break free of whatever hold that guy’s got on him.

“Is he one of them?” gun dude says, sparing a glance at Columbo.

“This one is human, Dean,” Columbo says, and holy shit, his voice is even deeper.

“Yep! A hundred percent, Grade A, human,” Stiles pipes up. “I’m guessing you’re a hunter, so your job is to get the things that kill humans, which means _you_ wouldn’t put a bullet in a human, right? That’d be totally against your code and your morals—you _do_ have a code, don’t you?”

God, he’s rambling, shit—but no, rambling’s good. Rambling takes up time, gives them time for Allison’s dad to get here and hopefully call off these psychos.

“Goddamn it,” the hunter named Dean says, looking over at Columbo. “What now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, [this](http://www.threadforthought.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/columbo-gesturing.jpg) is a shot of Columbo. Also, I've written the chapter that comes after this but I haven't edited it, so you can expect it to be posted soon(ish).


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is a fucking idiot.

Who stands _in the way of a bullet_ for a _werewolf?_ Stiles is only human—if he gets shot, he could definitely die, and Derek does _not_ want that on his conscience. If Derek could move a muscle, he’d be shoving Stiles out of the way, but he can’t move at all, which might just be the freakiest thing he’s ever encountered in his life. He’d been able to feel the helpless sluggishness in his limbs when the kanima venom took hold, but now, he feels strong as ever, but _not strong enough_ , and that’s _terrifying_.

What _is_ that thing in the trench coat?

“This one is human, Dean,” he says, and it almost hurts Derek’s ears a little to hear the guy talk, like something’s resonating that feels too loud, too strong, too _much_ , fuck.

Stiles goes off on a spiel, the way he always does when he’s nervous or stalling for time, and it occurs to Derek that Scott left. Shit, Scott’s probably going to get backup, but the last thing Derek wants is for the rest of his pack to show up right now. He only _just_ got the warning from Chris, didn’t even have time to tell them to lay low.

“Goddamn it. What now?” the hunter says when Stiles goes quiet.

The thing in the trench coat doesn’t answer immediately, and Derek wonders again what it is.

It’s nothing Derek has ever smelled before, foreign and ancient, with an aura like an approaching storm, something electric about it. Derek is truly terrified of finding out what this creature might be capable of if it’s holding three werewolves down, completely restrained, without even breaking a sweat.

“Scott’s gone to get Chris Argent,” Stiles whispers under his breath, quiet enough that the hunter shouldn’t be able to pick it up, but Derek doesn’t doubt that the _thing_ can hear him just fine.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know whether or not it’s a good thing to get Chris, because willingly or not, Erica and Boyd _did_ kill those people, and he isn’t sure how much the hunter and his _thing_ have figured out.

“These werewolves are friends of Chris Argent,” the thing announces.

Even as Derek begins to smell surprise in the air, coming both from the hunter and from Stiles—from Erica and Boyd, too—he realizes that his limbs are his own again, so he nabs Stiles, tugging him back and behind himself, casting wary eyes on the thing at the top of the stairs, its hands lowered now.

* * *

The wolves are harmless, so Castiel sees no point in restraining them any longer. After all, the more power he expends—the more Grace he lets loose—the more likely it is that Naomi’s angels will find him.

So he releases his hold on the three werewolves. As predicted, the two near the bedroom back away from Dean together, possibly because they feel safer in close proximity with each other. The wolf on the stairs immediately leaps to his feet and drags the human behind him, taking up a protective stance, which is surprising. Who is this human to these werewolves?

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean is saying in the meantime, eyes flitting between the two pairs of potential threats. “How the hell can they be friends with Chris?”

“I don’t know, but they seem to be,” Castiel responds. He heard the human clearly, after all.

“That doesn’t make them any less guilty of killing those people,” Dean says.

Castiel frowns. “Innocence and guilt are not always as clean-cut as they appear. You must know that,” he says to Dean. Turning to the human boy, he says, “Repeat what you just told your friend.”

“Who— _me?_ ”

“Don’t listen to him,” the werewolf growls.

“Derek, we didn’t do anything wrong. They can’t kill us for no reason. Just—let’s cooperate, and get this sorted out, and then we can all forget it ever happened,” the human reasons, and perhaps his words are directed toward the werewolf named Derek, but his eyes are fixed on Castiel.

“Please,” Castiel says.

Looking at Dean, the boy says, “I told him that my friend’s gone to get Chris Argent.”

“Chris _kills_ werewolves,” Dean says with a frown. “There’s no way he’d be friends with a group of them.”

“If you don’t believe us, just—just wait. They’ll come, I swear,” the boy says.

Then Dean’s cell phone starts ringing, and he ignores it for a moment before cursing under his breath and digging it out of his pocket. “Yeah,” he answers it.

The two werewolves in the bedroom edge away subtly, and Castiel turns his head toward them, meeting their eyes steadily. “You can’t run away,” he says gravely, and they stay still, seeming to accept the truth of his words.

“I’ll wait here, then,” Dean says, and hangs up. To everyone present, he says, “That was Chris. He says he’s on his way.”

“See? I told you he—” the boy starts.

“Just keep your mouth shut,” Dean snaps, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know why you’re so intent on protecting these monsters, but those two—” Dean points a finger at the werewolves on the second floor, “—killed four people. That’s what they _do_.”

“Not all of us,” Derek replies.

Dean just lets out a disbelieving huff and puts his gun away, apparently trusting Castiel to keep the situation under control. He folds his arms across his chest and glares at the ground while he waits. Castiel looks between the people present in the house and thinks that they all have pure souls.

* * *

It feels like forever before they finally hear a car pulling up outside, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, but Derek’s hand is still firmly clamped around his arm. God, leave it to him to still be worried even though backup’s already here.

But shit, if the hunters already know that Boyd and Erica have killed people, then Allison’s dad would want to kill them, wouldn’t he?

No. No, he listens to reason, so he’ll accept the fact that Boyd and Erica were forced.

Won’t he?

Suddenly Stiles understands why Derek’s so freaking tense.

But it’s too late to un-invite papa Argent from this powwow, so they’re just gonna have to let it play out and hope for the best.

Turning toward the door, Stiles watches as Chris Argent enters, followed closely by Scott, which—god _damn_ it, Scott, he’d be more useful outside, where they could potentially send him for backup. But again, too late.

“Okay, this isn’t half as bad as it sounded when Scott got to me,” Chris says, surveying the scene.

“That kid insists that you’re friends with these werewolves,” Dean says, and Stiles bristles at being referred to as a _kid_ , but he supposes the hunter’s gotta be in like his late thirties, early forties, so of course Stiles looks like a kid to him, but _still_ —

“I wouldn’t say friends,” Chris hedges. “We have an agreement.”

“Yeah well, does that agreement involve letting them get away with killing people?” Dean says.

“What?” Chris says, surprised, and Derek’s grip on Stiles’s arm is tightening, which— _ow_.

“Those two werewolves are responsible for the deaths of the four people in town,” Columbo says, and Stiles wishes he could’ve pushed the guy through a window or something to shut him up.

Chris noticeably stiffens at this piece of information, glaring at the back of Derek’s head, because Derek apparently still considers Dean and Columbo the bigger threat, which… yeah, makes sense—better the devil you know, right?

Then Chris is marching up the stairs, and Derek falters, seemingly unsure what to do with Stiles now that he’s being sandwiched in on the staircase. He starts to herd Stiles down the stairs, but Stiles grabs onto the railing with one hand and Derek’s arm with the other, because he’s staying right where he is.

“ _You_ told me that it had nothing to do with your pack,” Chris says, passing by Stiles and getting right up in Derek’s face. “Are you gonna try to tell me that you didn’t know about this?”

“I knew,” Derek bites out. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d jump to the wrong conclusions.”

“ _Wrong conclusions?_ ” Chris repeats, eyebrows practically at his hairline. “There’s only one conclusion to this, and it is that Boyd and Erica have to die.”

“No, you can’t kill them!” Scott says, taking a step toward the staircase.

“Don’t move!” Dean shouts from the second story, and right, of course the gun is out. Freakin’ why did Scott even come in here? He would’ve been safe outside.

“Dean, you can’t kill him. He’s innocent,” Chris says, and okay, at least he’s still got principles, even if it’s those principles that have him convinced that Erica and Boyd have to die. One problem at a time.

“No, but I can shoot him in the leg, neutralize him as a threat,” Dean responds.

“We didn’t want to kill them,” Erica says suddenly, and she and Boyd have come completely out of the guest room, visible from the staircase now. “It wasn’t—we were forced to.”

“ _Forced_ to? Who would force _you_ to kill people?” Dean asks.

“It was a group of alphas,” Derek answers for her—for them all.

“A group of alphas?” Dean repeats, eyebrows raised. Eyes cutting over to Columbo, he says, “I thought there was only one alpha for each type of monster. And I thought Crowley killed ‘em all.”

Crowley? Who—or _what_ , rather, seeing as he apparently took out an alpha—is Crowley?

“You’re probably talking about the True Alpha,” Derek says, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’m guessing this Crowley killed the True Alpha about two years ago?”

“The alpha werewolf, yes,” Columbo answers, squinting at Derek.

“It wasn’t the only alpha werewolf. There’s an alpha in every pack,” Derek says.

He goes through the whole spiel about the True Alpha, the Judge, and how groups of alphas go scouting for the Judge. During it all, Stiles can’t help but wonder if there’s supposed to be a limit to this—like isn’t this knowledge supposed to stay out of hunters’ ears or something? Then again, there are lives on the line, and that’s more important.

“They still killed four people, and they need to answer for that,” Dean says when they’re finished, and wow, is he for real?

“How did you guys even know for sure that they did it?” Stiles asks, because if he can buy some time, maybe they can think their way out of this, negotiate something that doesn’t end in death.

“The missing hearts were a pretty big clue,” Dean says, grimacing.

“I’ve been around werewolves for months, and I’ve never heard of hearts going missing,” Stiles says. It’s only _kind of_ a lie, because now that Dean mentions it, Stiles remembers reading something about werewolves eating hearts when he was doing research, but he’d dismissed it as a myth after Scott changed a couple times and no hearts went missing.

“That’s the work of evolution,” Columbo says, taking over when his hunter friend falters. “Some packs, even some entire communities, have managed to integrate with human communities, blending in and breeding with them. They’ve evolved away from needing to consume raw hearts, though a taste can still cause addiction and a longing for more.”

“O—kay? So what you’re saying is that the Hales were basically the Cullens of werewolves?” Stiles says.

“Do _not_ compare us to sparkling vampires,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

“And vampires don’t sparkle. They rip people’s throats out,” Dean puts in. “I would know.”

Stiles stares at him. “Vampires are real, too? Of _course_ they are. Next you’re gonna be saying that dragons and ghouls are real, too.” Dean gives him a look, and Stiles says, “I’m just going to stop, now.”

“Yeah. Good plan.”

“Stop stalling for time,” Chris says, and well, darn. At least Stiles gets points for trying, right? “We need to decide what to do now.”

* * *

They have to die, Dean thinks. If they start letting off monsters that kill people just because they were supposedly “forced” into it by other monsters, then where will they draw the line?

“You’re not touching my pack,” the alpha of this pack says. “They were forced into it. Would you sentence a human to death for murder even if his hand was forced?”

“It isn’t the same,” Chris says. “I adhere to a strict code. If a werewolf kills a human, it has to die.”

“But they didn’t _want_ to,” the human boy protests.

“Oh, and we’re just supposed to take your word for it?” Dean says.

“There _was_ another group of werewolves in the vicinity, Dean,” Cas says, which is _totally_ not helping Dean’s argument right now. “They could be telling the truth.”

“Even if they _are_ telling the truth, feeling sorry and having done it against their will does not bring those humans back,” Chris points out.

The alpha grabs Chris’s shoulder and says, “You know them—you’re supposed to _understand_.”

“I don’t think so,” Chris says. “Might I remind you that you _lied_ to me, Derek? You said that none of your pack was involved, but it turns out Erica and Boyd killed those four people. You said you didn’t know anything about any other werewolves coming into town, yet just a few minutes ago, you said that you _did_ know about them.”

“But—”

“You lied,” Chris repeats. “How am I supposed to believe anything that you say?”

“Look, this doesn’t have anything to do with lies,” the alpha tries to argue. “I’m saying that you should take into account the fact that they didn’t have a choice. And if you really _do_ wanna talk lies, why don’t you ask your hunter friend what _that_ is?” he finishes, pointing an accusing finger up at Cas, and shit, Dean had almost forgotten that Cas showed off his angel mojo earlier.

“He’s a hunter,” Chris says, naturally.

“He’s not even _human_ ,” the alpha spits as Dean shouts, “Shut up!”

But Chris is already turning questioning eyes on Dean, and fuck, how’s Dean gonna explain this? Dean catches Cas opening his mouth in his peripheral vision and holds a hand up in his direction, silently begging him to keep his mouth shut too, and thankfully, Cas actually listens.

“Can we talk about this later?” Dean says, looking over at his friend.

“I think we should talk about it now,” Chris says, frowning now, and the werewolf looks so goddamn _smug_. Fuck him.

“Fine,” Dean says, because there’re no two ways about it, now. “Cas is an angel.”

There’s a moment of silence, everyone in the house too surprised to react, and then they all start laughing. Dean guesses he should’ve expected that.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but Cas could smite the fuck outta all o’ you if he wanted to,” he says.

“But then shouldn’t you be hunting Col—I mean, Cas?” the human boy points out.

Dean sputters a little despite himself. “He’s different,” he answers.

“Well, our pack is different,” the human boy says, and that makes no sense, because he’s, well, _human_.

So Dean says, “You’re not even a werewolf.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still pack,” the kid on the ground floor says.

“I think it’d be best if we left the decision for tomorrow,” Cas suggests. “It’ll give us some time to consider our morals.” Looking at the werewolves severely, he says, “You’re suggesting that your pack members should be let off without punishment when they did in fact kill four people, coerced or not. And you—” his eyes flick between Dean and Chris now “—mean to execute two people who killed against their will.”

“Yeah, thanks for the SparkNotes, Cas,” Dean grumbles. He looks over at Chris and sees him give a small nod, so he says, “All right, we’re leaving. But don’t even think about leaving town, because I’m gonna have Cas keeping an eye on you guys. You’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

It’s silent after Dean’s words, and he stomps down the stairs, the three occupants going down so that they won’t come into contact with each other. Dean, Cas, and Chris leave the house together, and one of the werewolves lifts the front door, fitting it back into the frame.

Dean starts toward the Impala immediately, but he’s stopped by a question from Chris—

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Cas?”

Dean sighs. “It’s a long story. I guess I just didn’t wanna get into it.”

“If you’re curious, look up a series of books called _Supernat_ —”

“Cas!” Dean barks sharply, cutting him off.

“I’ll tell you later,” Cas says to Chris, whose eyebrows have shot up.

Dean just groans and snaps at Cas to get in the goddamn car.

* * *

“Hooooly crap,” Stiles says, climbing the stairs up to the second floor. Derek and Scott come up right behind him. “I can’t believe we all got outta that okay.”

“Well, it’s not _over_ ,” Erica says. “We need to get outta here.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Didn’t you hear what he said? That _angel_ or whatever’s gonna know if we leave town—wait no, can he uh,” Stiles starts, turning toward Derek now, “do you really think he can do that?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever heard rumors about angels.”

“Ugh, you’re useless,” Stiles grumbles, and Derek gives him this dirty look. He even _smells_ offended, which—right, that’s why he and Scott finally decided to come over in the first place.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Erica asks. “Just wait for them to come back and kill us?”

“They won’t kill you,” Derek says.

“You don’t know that,” Scott says.

Turning to him, Derek says, “Then I’ll make sure they can’t kill them.”

“But you’re as helpless as we are against that angel guy,” Boyd points out.

“The angel guy was also the one who convinced them to let us go,” Derek says. “I don’t think he’ll let the hunters kill you.” After a pause, he says, “Scott, could you talk to Allison?”

“I… don’t think that’s a good idea,” Scott says.

“Stiles?”

“Do you really think she’d listen to Stiles more than Scott?” Boyd asks, frowning.

“Actually, yeah,” Erica says. “I mean, Stiles is just a friend. Scott is the ex-boyfriend.”

“Okay. Stiles, give Allison a call. Hopefully she’ll tell us what’s going on with her dad,” Derek says.

“What about the other hunter?” Stiles asks as he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “Or are we just gonna hope that Columbo talks him out of—”

“Columbo?” Scott says.

Boyd chuckles. “He _did_ have a Columbo coat on, didn’t he?”

Turning to Scott, Stiles says, “Dude, how did you never watch Columbo as a kid? Y’know, this kinda old detective guy from the LAPD who wears a tan coat—”

“Not everyone had a cop for a daddy, okay?” Erica interrupts, which— _rude_.

But he supposes she’s right. Scott’s mom doesn’t seem like she would’ve liked that show, anyway. “I’ll just go call Allison, then,” Stiles says, starting down the stairs.

“Stay inside the house,” Derek cautions, and he just nods, selecting Allison from his contacts.

“What _are_ we gonna do about the other hunter?” Stiles hears Erica ask, but before Derek can respond, Allison has picked up the phone, so Stiles shifts his attention away from the pack.

“Stiles?” Allison says. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, is your dad anywhere near you right now?” Stiles asks, just to be sure.

“No. He’s out. Why?”

“Uh, okay. We kinda need your help.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” Allison asks warily.

“The pack. Especially Erica and Boyd,” Stiles answers. Allison is quiet, so he says, “See, you remember the True Alpha stuff Derek told us about, yesterday, and how Erica and Boyd were taken by the alpha pack? Well these two new hunters came into town, and—”

“Oh right, I was wondering whether or not I should tell you,” Allison interrupts.

“Wait, what?”

“Oh. They got in last night. I heard my dad setting them up in the guest room.”

“They’re staying _at your house?_ ”

“Yeah. I guess one of them is one of my dad’s old hunting buddies,” Allison says. After a pause, she says, a note of concern in her voice, “Are they giving you guys trouble?”

“Well uh, they found out that Erica and Boyd were the ones who killed those people, but then Derek explained that the alpha pack forced them to do it, so they decided they’d sleep on it before deciding whether or not Erica and Boyd deserve to die, which is bullshit because they were just trying to keep themselves alive, y’know? Like it was a me-or-them sort of situation, and—”

“So you want me to talk to my dad,” Allison interrupts.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, basically. Could you?” When there’s no immediate response, Stiles says, “Come on, Allison. You _know_ them. And don’t you think you owe them at least a little for almost killing them?”

“I don’t owe them anything,” Allison says a little angrily. “They were part of Derek’s pack. He killed my mom, so I was just—”

“Getting revenge. Okay, got it. Just—please,” Stiles says. “We need your help. They’re innocent—”

“But they _did_ kill those four people,” Allison interjects.

“— _mostly_ innocent, then,” Stiles corrects, rolling his eyes. “Look, according to California Penal Code Section 192, what they did would count as involuntary manslaughter. Even if they were convicted for it, they’d get like four years in state prison, max. They don’t deserve to die.”

There’s a long pause, and then Allison says, “Do I even want to know how you know that?”

“I read when I have trouble sleeping,” Stiles says.

“And _this_ is your reading material—the California Penal Code.”

“Well I mean, my dad’s a cop,” Stiles says with a shrug. Then he shakes his head. “No, that doesn’t matter. Will you help us or not?”

Allison sighs. “I can’t promise you anything, but I can talk to him.”

“That’s all we ask,” Stiles says, relieved.

“I just heard him pulling in,” Allison says. “I’ll text you later.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Allison hangs up then, and Stiles puts his phone away, turning to look up the stairs at the werewolves. They’re all looking down at him, and he sighs, because of _course_ they could hear that entire conversation, Allison’s half included. Freaking supersonic hearing.

“So what’s the plan?” Stiles says, watching as they start coming down the stairs toward him.

“We’re just gonna stick around here, maybe watch some TV,” Erica says.

“I don’t want to drag anyone else into this,” Derek says, “so don’t talk to Jackson or Isaac.”

“Actually, Isaac is probably gonna come looking for me if I don’t come home,” Scott says.

“We’re not going home?” Stiles says, looking over at Derek.

Erica and Boyd have already disappeared into the living room, and Scott and Derek head in that direction too, so Stiles follows.

“I think it’d be best if everyone stayed here,” Derek says. “There’s strength in numbers, and you two are already involved, so you might as well stay. Isaac too, if he shows up.”

“Okay. I’ll have to call my dad, but he’ll probably be fine with it,” Stiles says. “Until then, are we seriously just gonna watch TV?”

“Actually, I have a job for you,” Derek says. “You’re good at research, right?”

“The best.”

“Great. Follow me. I’ve got a computer upstairs for you to use,” Derek says. Glancing over at Scott, he says, “On second thought, Scott, just give Isaac a call and tell him to come over. I don’t want him to alert Jackson by asking where you’ve gone.”

“Got it,” Scott says.

“C’mon, Stiles.”

Stiles starts up the stairs behind Derek, and he is definitely _not_ going to check out that ass, except—yeah, he’s totally checking out Derek’s ass because it is freakin’ _fine_. “Uh, what am I gonna be researching?” he asks, trying to distract himself.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” Derek says as they reach the top of the stairs and turn right, toward what Stiles assumes to be Derek’s room.

They walk inside, and there’s something about this room that strikes a familiar chord in Stiles’s chest. He hesitates just inside the doorway, heart hammering, and Derek turns toward him, concerned.

“You okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says, because he _is_ fine, but he’s got no idea what just happened. Derek looks at him skeptically as his heart rate slows again, and he says, “So you said you had a computer.”

“Yeah,” Derek says slowly, leading the way across the bedroom to a desk that’s set up against the wall, just to the right of a large window. There’s a desktop computer sitting there, probably a few years old. Derek starts up the machine and says, “I want you to find out everything you can about angels.”

* * *

The house is quiet after Dean goes to bed. Castiel is aware that his friend is not asleep yet, which means he can’t leave yet, but he intends to go to Benny as soon as Dean is unconscious. The vampire had seemed on the verge of mental breakdown, and despite their rough start in Purgatory, they had developed a grudging respect for each other after surviving fight after fight together.

It didn’t hurt that they both placed Dean’s survival as their top priority—Benny perhaps for more selfish reasons than Castiel, at the time.

But the pain in Benny’s eyes at the thought of lost friendship suggests that he truly cares about Dean as an individual now, and Castiel thinks he understands him.

Dean starts dropping off, and Castiel shifts a little, preparing to take flight.

They spent today looking for other potential werewolf cases throughout the neighboring areas, to check the story that Derek told them about the group of alphas. Dean had also called Sam, asking him to do some digging to see if the Men of Letters knew anything about True Alphas. By the evening, they’d confirmed the existence of True Alphas, meaning that Crowley had tortured and killed the True Alpha two years ago for no reason—he wouldn’t have known the way into Purgatory, anyway.

There’s been no sign yet of the alpha pack making a move on another town, but it could be because they haven’t yet encountered another pack of werewolves.

Dean’s asleep.

Castiel finds Benny in an alleyway, leaning against a wall and watching as a girl walks closer to him. His eyes follow her intently, and she pulls her coat tighter around herself, probably recognizing him as a threat. But he just watches her, lets her pass by, and continues to stare after her until she’s disappeared around the corner.

Sighing, Castiel makes himself visible, stepping into the light to make his presence known.

“Yes,” Benny says before Castiel can ask, “I was thinking about tearing her throat out. It gets more enticing every time I think about it.”

Castiel studies the vampire. “Do you have time?”

Benny just laughs incredulously, turning toward Castiel and lifting his hands to the sides, as though to say, _what do you think?_

Castiel thinks that he does have time, so he flies them to an old park, significant to him but probably not to many others. The town has grown since he was last here, and it’s a comforting thought.

“Do you feel that you have… good morals?” Castiel asks, sitting down on the bench and gesturing for Benny to do the same.

“I wouldn’t say _good_ , but I have my limits,” Benny replies, turning to sit down.

The swings sway a little in the wind, and Castiel thinks about encouraging them along, about generating a breeze to really make them move. It reminds him of how—how inhuman he is.

“Dean and I are working a case in California,” Castiel says. “Two young werewolves were forced to kill four people by a group of older werewolves. The older werewolves then escaped, leaving the two young ones behind to be hunted down and killed.”

Benny’s brow is furrowed when Castiel looks over, but he doesn’t comment.

“I believe Dean thinks that they should die,” Castiel says.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Benny says. “He’s hunted things like us his whole life. He told me that if I slipped up, he’d be the first guy to come after me.”

Castiel looks down. “But I don’t think he thinks he _can_ kill the young wolves. Just as I don’t think he’d be able to kill you.”

Benny looks over at Castiel, surprised. “You don’t think Dean could kill me.”

“I don’t. He does not make friends easily, but once he begins to care for someone, he cares deeply.”

“Well,” Benny says, shaking his head and looking out at the empty park. “If he couldn’t do it himself, he’d let Sam do it.”

Castiel frowns at the vampire, unsure whether or not he should argue. Deciding against it for the time being, he says, “There is one other hunter in town, one who specializes in killing werewolves. He wants the young wolves dead because they have blood on their hands, but also partly because he was the one who released them when they were captured, about a week ago.”

“How’d you know _that?_ ” Benny asks, seemingly grateful that the conversation has turned away from the Winchesters.

“I overheard him arguing with his daughter earlier today,” Castiel says. “She wants him to let the werewolves go, but she appears to have been classmates with at least one of them, so her opinion might not be objective.”

“And you think my opinion would be,” Benny says.

“It’d be more objective than anyone who is currently in that town, I believe.”

“But I’m a supernatural creature too. You don’t think I’d be inclined to stand on their side?”

“You’re a vampire that drinks from blood bags in order to avoid preying directly on humans. I’d say that you could take either side in this case,” Castiel says. “But then, I see why you would sympathize with the werewolves. They’re attempting to blend in with humanity as well. These ones don’t eat human hearts. But they’re better off than you are, in that they don’t require human hearts to sustain themselves.”

Benny scoffs. “Thanks. You really know how to make a brother feel better.”

“What do you think?” Castiel asks.

“How young are these werewolves, and how outmatched were they?” Benny asks after a moment.

“They’re teenagers. And I do not know how powerful the older wolves were, but they were outnumbered at least three to one,” Castiel says, thinking back to the presences that he had sensed at the site where the bodies had been discovered.

“You should let ‘em go, then,” Benny says.

Castiel nods. “I agree with your judgment.” After a pause, he says, “I’ll tell Dean what you said.”

“Don’t mention me to him.”

“But I already have.”

“You told him that you came to see me?” Benny asks.

“Of course,” Castiel replies. “Was I not supposed to?” Benny just sighs heavily. “I think it’d be best if you came with me this time. You and Dean should speak face to face.”

“No,” Benny says firmly. “I don’t want to see him, not when he doesn’t want to see me.”

“But Dean _does_ want to see you,” Castiel says. “The only reason why he hasn’t is because of Sam.”

“Then I can’t put him in that position again,” Benny says. Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but Benny looks him in the eye and says, “I _won’t_. If you were in my position, you’d do the same, wouldn’t you?”

Castiel sighs, frustrated, because Benny is right. “Fine. I’ll take you back to your truck, now. If you have any more moments like the one tonight, don’t hesitate to pray to me. Even if I cannot make it to you right away, you have my word that I’ll be listening.”

Benny only nods, looking away, and Castiel places a hand on his shoulder before taking flight. He drops Benny off by his old truck and returns to Beacon Hills.


End file.
